


Are You Dating My Dad? Boogie Woogie-Woogie!

by CookieCatSU



Category: Smile For Me (Video Game)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Immortality, Implied Sexual Content, Jimothan and Trencil are both in the 'I'm sad and I've lost a wife' squad, Kamal is basically the group therapist, M/M, Nat is mentioned, Parsley & Kamal friendship, Parsley drops the f-bomb folks, Parsley is very protective of his father, Set at the Habitat, They have problems but they still care about each other, Trencil is anyway
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2020-10-16
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:40:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26181289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CookieCatSU/pseuds/CookieCatSU
Summary: Jimothan starts to seek Trencil out. No one's ever done that before.He learns about Trencil's love for flora, and starts to brings flowers for him. Trencil tolerates him, but not much else. There's nothing going on, of course. Just two fathers hanging out.Parsley knows better.
Relationships: Jimothan Botch & Parsley Botch, Jimothan Botch/Trencil Varnnia, Kamal Bora & Parsley Botch, Nat Vancey & Trencil Varnnia, Parsley Botch & Trencil Varnnia
Comments: 9
Kudos: 40





	1. Explain, Good Sir!

Trencil is more lonesome than he cares to admit. He supposes that's part of the reason he's at the Habitat, in some roundabout sort of way. Desperate to keep that sacred connection with his daughter, his child, the last thread of contact he has left. There is nothing keeping him tethered to where he was, no one holding him back. Just an empty house. Empty heart.

He does not want to be alone. He does not want Nat to be alone. _Scared_ and alone, like he has been for such a long time. How long? Years? Decades? He is not certain anymore, the time has stretched so far behind him.

So he follows.

But there is nothing for him here, either. No one he wishes to speak with, no one he could possibly imagine interacting with. That is alright. He watches over Nat, and contents himself with his garden. The ache in his heart is so familiar, he does not even notice it.

He is fine.

He's so ingrained in his routine, that he is rather annoyed, when the bartender walks up to him, interrupting his silent sulking (sulking is normal, he likes it). He can't quite remember his name. He's spoken to him a couple times, but only to exchange the simple greetings required for politeness sake.

"Can I get you somethin', Champ?"

Trencil scowls with displeasure. He had not touched the bottle since, since Marigold... passed. He would not start again now.

"I… no thank you. While I appreciate the offer, I would prefer not to become inebriated tonight"

"Sure, pal?" He asks, "I'm a whizz with a shaker"

"I am quite certain"

The bartender laughs. His orange eyes shine, almost wicked, and highly amused, in dim yellow light. "You're sitting at the bar, my bar, might I add, but don't want to drink? Seems pretty silly, dontcha think"

Trencil could not exactly argue with that. It was unusual, he supposed. Most people did not come to bars simply to sit.

"I like the mood. It's very somber, this evening" And Trencil is in a somber mood.

Jimothan (his name is Jimothan, Trencil will learn, once he cares enough to listen) chuckles. "Only 'cause Jerafina's out. Too sick to stumble her way up through the door! I promise ya, if she were in here, you'd know. She'd be screeching her heart out from here to Kingdom come!"

"Oh, that _miserable_ wench. Thank goodness. I cannot stand to _so much_ as have her in my general vicinity"

"Wow, strong words from Mr. Mild-mannered, poetry in motion. Didn't know you had it in ya" Jimothan exclaims, and he's absolutely laughing now.

It's only desperation that causes Trencil to smile, ever so slightly.  
  


* * *

Trencil is fine. His heart is thudding in his chest, unlike it has in centuries, but he is fine. He is fine, just as he always has been. He is not about to let some human man change that. It does not matter that he makes him laugh, or tells the most delightful stories, or that his hands are so pleasantly warm when he holds Trencil's chilly palms against his own. None of that matters an ounce.

Trencil is alone, and he will remain that way for the rest of time. 

_Never again,_ he'd promised. After Marigold, never again. She was his one and only, until death do them part. And now death has parted them and he will continue the journey on his lonesome. As is the way of things.

He would not falter, nor rescind. He owed her that. He'd promised her, at least that much. They promised _each other._

He gazes, long and hard at her picture, sitting framed beside his bed. Longingly and lovingly. Desperately and mournfully. He traces her smile, her dark locks. Stares at the last piece he has.

Then he presses the frame face down on the nightstand. Traces the mark on his hand, of which the twin was no more.

Puts his life on hold, just as he'd willingly done for her when she was alive.

He has an eternity to live, anyhow.

* * *

Jimothan is stubborn. He weasels his way into Trencil's life, even though the man is against it (or at least acts to be) at every turn.

Jimothan starts to seek Trencil out. No one's ever done that before. 

He learns about Trencil's love for flora, and starts to bring flowers for him, whatever exotic such specimens he finds on his nature walks, or on the way to those hills he likes to trek so much. Sometimes they run into each other at the General Store (the only store, unfortunately) and Jimothan will want to get into a long discussion.

Trencil indulges him, sometimes. On other occasions, he does not (he's trying to push him away, _just stay away,_ stop complicating what is already so vastly complicated). Jimothan is never properly discouraged.

He even figures out which house is Trencil's, though the vampire admits that isn't a difficult feat. He hardly strays far, and it isn't very hard to determine which house he hovers near the most. The sprawling garden in the back doesn't help, either.

Trencil should not be surprised when Jimothan shows up at his front door for dinner, unannounced. He still is anyway.

"What a lovely surprise" Trencil says, and it isn't completely facetious, "To what do I owe the pleasure, Mr. Botch?"

"Din-din, maybe?" Jimothan's eyes are hopeful, "I'll cook. Ya don't have to lift a finger. The house is just… too quiet, ya hear? I brought a peace offering too, by the way"

Jimothan offers up the simple daisy, clutched between his fingertips.

Trencil nods, accepts the offer, and the flower, at face value.

"Yes, that is fine. Come, make yourself at home" Trencil moves from within the doorway, arm extended into the foyer, "And I will be doing the cooking, thank you"

"Whatever ya say" Jimothan grins, and Trencil lets him inside, despite his better judgement.

A dinner party between friends never hurt, after all.

(And... Jimothan doesn't have eternity).

* * *

Broken people tend to drift together. Lonely people tend to drift together. Trencil has noticed this sort of thing, because it is happening now.

Jimothan is just as broken, just as lonesome, as Trencil. He too sees ghosts in the passages, he too hears voices, smells perfume that has long since vanished, finds himself smiling at a figure that left him so long ago. Jimothan dreams too, like Trencil does sometimes, on the nights that feel the coldest and make his heart ache the most. He feels a piece of himself, missing. Just gone.

When Trencil finds himself slotting his fingers between Jimothan's, it just makes sense, then. They are one in the same. They should stick together. Their jagged edges could be fit together to make a new picture.

It's a natural progression, because they are both such lonely people. And well, Trencil likes to think that maybe they can rectify that.

* * *

Trencil is setting himself up for heartbreak, when he lets Jimothan into the half dead organ squelching in the center of his chest. He knows he is. Jimothan is human. Jimothan will wither away, and disappear, someday. Jimothan will die. That is the way of things.

Jimothan will die. And Trencil will remain. Just as occurred with his dearest Marigold. It is inevitable, and Trencil can do nothing to stop it, and that is so _horrifying_ it makes his skin crawl.

Jimothan hiccups, swirling the red wine in his glass, laughing uproariously as he leans over his ceramic plate. Trencil gazes fondly at him, at dazzlingly, blood orange eyes and his twirling 'stache, and decides it does not matter. He does not care.

He is just happy to be able to enjoy what little time they have.

He also cannot bring himself to be quite so ungrateful, to feel such pity for himself. To have this chance again is like a gift from the heavens. For who, truly, gets the opportunity to fall in love like this again, like he has. What being is ever so lucky to be gifted two great loves in one lifetime?

Who loses someone, to then stumble upon another person who they can cherish just as fully? Someone who completes them so perfectly?

No one, Trencil thinks. No, Trencil truly is the luckiest man in the world.

"Because I have you" He coos, in the middle of whatever Jimothan is saying, because it's too important to be left unspoken. 

And he presses a kiss to the back of Jimothan's palm, and when the man laughs, he let's it fill him up. Fill every empty space and wrinkle. 

* * *

Trencil hasn't had much opportunity to talk to Parsley, as of yet. He's a well mannered young man.

Trencil likes him, based on the little he's seen of the boy, thus far. Besides, he's Jimothan's child, and any child of Jimothan is a child of Trencil's, by extension. So really, he's quite fond of him.

Parsley stomps up to Trencil while he's tending to his garden, hand clamped with a death grip around his briefcase. He looks very angry. Trencil doesn't think he's seen him so upset before.

Trencil has been working on being more sociable, so he greets Parsley with a pleasant smile, even if he recoils from the furious side eye he's directing his way.

"I hope your evening has been going pleasantly thus far, young Mr. Botch" He pauses, and starts to backpedal, when he sees that just makes Parsley angrier, "It is... quite unusual for someone to come visit me at such a late hour. What brings you here?" 

"Don't good evening me, bub" Parsley snaps, "I know what you've been doin'. Whatcha been playing at!"

Trencil stands up, back ramrod straight, brushing primly at the dirt clinging to his slacks.

He blinks, startled by the accusation, "I…" Trencil stops before he can try to defend himself, eyes furrowed, " _Pardon_ me? I don't recall doing anything deserving of ire. In fact, I would hope that I've been perfectly hospitable. What wrong doings do you believe I've committed? Pray tell, good sir"

"You know _exactly_ what I'm talking about-" Parsley shakes his head, huffing. He stomps over to Trencil, shoes sinking into the mud, briefcase swinging at his side, and gets up on his tippy toes so he can glare him in the eye. He points accusingly at the vampire, gaze squinty with anger. "Are you fucking my dad, Trencil?"

Trencil pales, sweat dribbling down his neck.

Oh goodness gracious. _That_. Trencil hadn't expected this subject to come up, especially so soon. It's only been a couple months. Had Jimothan told his son about them…? Hmmm. Highly unlikely. Had Parsley put the pieces together, picked up on the almost imperceptible, tiny signs they'd been unable to hide? Very plausible. Had they been so obvious that any curious onlooker who so much as gazed at them, could tell? Perhaps.

Trencil did not want to have this conversation, especially with Parsley (his future son-in-law, and eventual _son,_ with luck). 

How _dreadfully_ awkward. How was one supposed to respond to an accusation such as this, without sounding absolutely boorish?

Trencil presses his index fingers together, places them to his lips, brain churning on overdrive, "Of course not… I can assure you I would never… Well, I suppose that depends on how you define that phrase… could you perhaps clarify what you mean by that?"

"Oh my god-"

Trencil chuckles awkwardly, "Perhaps this is a discussion you should have with your father, yes?"

"Trencil! I can't believe you! Oh my god… Ugh! That is so wrong. You can't just do that and not tell a dude!" 

Clearly, he was not weaseling out of explaining so easily. Worth a try, he supposed.

Trencil gives a small, remorseful smile. "Of course, Parsley. Apologies…"

He deserved an explanation, didn't he? So Trencil gears up to give one, even if he sorely wishes he wouldn't have to be the one to do this. Oh well, "….Your father is a lovely man, and, you see, he is very dear to me. I risk sounding overly saccharine, besotted even, but, you _must_ understand, he _truly_ is the dusk-lit evening to my morning sky. The moon on my horizon. The crisp dew drops, which hang upon my morning glory's petals. When I say that I adore him, a truer word has never once been uttered"

He can not stop himself from getting carried away, a little breathless, eyelashes fluttering and hands clasped tight at his chest, as he orates.

Parsley gags, expression twisted with mild disgust. "I can't, I can't right now, man"

Trencil smiles softly, adoring, at the thought of his beloved Jimothan.

"He is my soul's reflection" He proclaims, "When he speaks he doeth not talk to my ears, but to my very essence"

Parsley throws his hands out in frustration. "Oh my god. I'm done! I'm just so done"

And he turns on his heel and walks off, leaving Trencil standing in his garden, still looking doe eyed and spewing saccharine sonnets.  
  


* * *

"I'm sure it's fine, Parsley" Kamal says, as reassuringly as he can.

"But, he didn't deny it" Parsley bemoans, pulling at his hair.

Kamal is honestly a little surprised Trencil didn't slap Parsley. Kamal certainly would have, friend or not, if he'd asked him something like _that_. They are talking about his father, though, so Kamal can see why he's concerned.

"I know me and Pops don't always get along, but he's _still_ my dad" Parsley adds, and Kamal knows he isn't exactly talking to him. More just, ranting. Blowing off some steam. Kamal lets him talk, and then rests his hand on his shoulder once he quiets a little.

"Oh well, relax… that doesn't mean-"

Parsley unfurls, slowly, stretching his legs out from where they'd been tucked into his chest, placing his hands sprawled across the surface of the wooden bench. He is agitated.

Horrified, more like.

"He started talking about how my Dad is the light of his life or whatever. Said something about dew drops… pretty sure that was a euphemism for him having a nice ass, or _something_ "

Kamal's eyes widen. "Oh… oh. Um… I'm not really sure what to say, buddy"

"Trencil isn't a _bad_ guy or anything… I _like_ him. I just…" He burrows his face in his hands, "The world is turning upside down, Kamal"

"Maybe, look at it this way. It might make you uncomfortable but, but your dad is happy, right? And isn't that what you want for him? He deserves to be happy like everyone else, yeah?"

Parsley hums noncommittally, but doesn't say a word. He doesn't trust himself to speak right now. Who knows what he'll say?

Nothing nice. He can say that much.

* * *

Parsley is still angry, a week later. It's turned into a light simmer, almost able to be ignored, but it's still there, just beneath his skin. He sees Trencil, and he scowls, biting into the side of his cheek. The taste of iron blooms in his mouth, but he doesn't care.

Trencil and his father walk hand in hand, so to speak, from the Lounge, connected at the elbow. Trencil leans toward Jimothan, says something with a cheery smile, and Parsley wants very much to march over there, to say anything that will get him to _stop._

His mother was the same way (and where was she, and where were they? Huh?).

Parsley's rolling up his sleeves, nose flaring, moments from tossing his briefcase to the ground. He's ready to tussle, vampiric strength be damned.

Then Jimothan laughs, loud and hearty and bellowing, clutching at his sides, and Parsley pauses. Pauses. Watches. Waits.

He does seem pretty happy, doesn't he?


	2. Are You My Mom? Nope.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Why him?"
> 
> "Well, sweetheart, he makes me very happy, and I care for him very deeply"
> 
> "Yeah but, why him?" She scowls at him, "Why not somebody else"
> 
> "My darling bloom, One does not simply decide to fall in love. The heart is a fickle mistress, and does as it pleases"

"Why him?"

His daughter stares at him, from her perch on the edge of her bed, looking adorably peeved in her red striped pjs.

It takes Trencil a moment to realize who Nat means when she says _him_. He smiles, and taps the surface of the bed. Nat huffs, but scoots over to snuggle under the covers once he's peeled them back.

He tucks the sheets around her, laughing a little at her protests. They carry less vitriol, then they used to, and Trencil is thankful, for that. Nat settles down, after a moment, and Trencil moves to heave himself up on the bed so he can sit beside her, back against the headboard, feet hanging off the end of the bed.

"Well, sweetheart, he makes me very happy, and I care for him very deeply"

"Yeah but, why _him_?" She scowls at him, "Why not _somebody else_ "

"My darling bloom, One does not simply _decide_ to fall in love. The heart is a fickle mistress, and does as it pleases"

"He's nothing like Mom" She says, and she turns away, curling up in bed.

Trencil smiles sadly.

"I know"

Tears cling to her lashes, big fat globs, collecting at the edges of her eyes. She refuses to let them fall. "I don't have to like him"

"I know"

Trencil brushes her hair from her face with his fingers, presses the pale pink locks from her forehead.

"Give it time"

* * *

Nat glares daggers at Parsley. She'd never liked him. He was awkward, and bumbling, and hanging with him wasn't boosting her cred by a single point. Oh, and he was old too, like _ancient,_ and sweaty and weird. 

She wouldn't even be talking to him, actually, but she needs his height.

He snatches the jar off the top shelf of the storage closet in the main building, cookies jostling all about. Nat snatches it from him as soon as it's close enough for her to reach, stuffing a chocolate cookie in her mouth.

The air is heavy, stuffy with awkward. Parsley seems to be thinking of something to say, staring at the ceiling, not really looking at Nat. She couldn't care less. She chomps down on another cookie, smacking her lips with an obnoxiously loud pop, and wipes the crumbs from her mouth.

Parsley clears his throat. Nat lazily gazes up at him. She's got what she wants already.

Parsley's hand presses to his neck, pulling at his nape. "So do you already know about, uh-"

"Yeah, I already know. Mom's been gone awhile, and now dad thinks he can just _replace_ her. He thinks I'm clueless or something. I'm not. I know what's up" She rolls her eyes, "What's so special about _him_ , anyway?"

"What's so special about _your dad_?"

"Hey, don't talk about my old man like that. Only I can talk about him like that" Nat sneers.

"Sorry, that was really uncalled for. I'm just stressed… also not sure what's going on with my dad. I was so shocked when he came to visit me with Trencil on his arm. Haven't seen him with anyone since mom died"

He sits down on the floor, pinstriped suit pants riding up to his mid calf. Nat sits beside him, but only because her legs are tired. The floor's a good place to sit. Chill.

It definitely doesn't matter how familiar that sounds. And she isn't curious. She doesn't want to blurt out, _really, you too?,_ with wide eyes.

"How'd it happen?" She asks instead, and her voice is considerably quieter than she would have liked.

"Car Accident"

She nods. Her right hand clenches. "Cancer. Raging Tumorous Garbage"

She'd looked so small, in her last days. Her mother had always been so strong, and seeing her laid up in that hospital bed, head shaven and so sickly she could see her ribs through her hospital gown… had been a lot for a five year old.

Parsley's expression is sympathetic. Understanding in that quietly mournful sort of way. He turns, and purposely shifts the subject slightly. "Didn't even know Pops liked men before that"

Nat shrugs, and gulps down another cookie. "Dad says the heart does what it wants"

"Wise words" Parsley smiles. He still looks a little queasy, but less so, "...I guess me and my dad have more in common than I thought"

He glances down at the cookie jar, "Can I have one?"

Only one left.

"Uh-huh" Nat licks the cookie in her hand. "Offers still on the table"

"Gross"

Parsley shudders, "No thanks. I'm good"

* * *

"I'm not staying for dinner"

"And why, may I ask, is that?"

"I have prior arrangements, Dad. Tammy and Trevor want to meet up at the junkyard later tonight, and I'm providing the bats"

Trencil doesn't ask what she's going to do with a baseball bat. In fact, he hardly reacts to the statement, and it's obvious he hadn't been listening too closely, he's so caught up in getting ready. He's rifling through his closet, searching for an appropriately dressy shirt for the occasion (so god awfully formal - in text to Nat).

"Surely you can reschedule, my dear. This is rather important. I want you and Jimothan to get along, and a pleasant, sedate dinner presents the perfect opportunity for the both of you to get better acquainted"

"But the trash fire, Dad!" Nat protests.

"We'll make our own in the backyard later this week… away from the hydrangeas, of course. We would need to keep it relatively small, as well" He hums, having found a shirt that satisfies him. Deep maroon, lace cuffs, stiff starched sleeves and rippling ruffles across the front.

Trencil turns to her in silent question, shirt draped over his chest, hanger at his throat. Nat shrugs, and gives a short nod of approval.

"I'm not going" Nat repeats, stubbornly, as Trencil walks off to grab his makeup.

Nat ends up going. Family dinners were one of the few topics Trencil brought his foot down about, so Nat already knew she'd be staying home to attend this stupid dinner no matter what protests she mounted.

Stupid dad, with his stupid rules. She glares at the door from the couch in the foyer, as her father pulls it open.

"Welcome, Jimothan" She can hear how cheery her dad sounds, "We've been waiting patiently for your arrival"

"Really?"

"Perhaps patiently is not quite the correct verbiage"

And Trencil bows at the waist, pressing a kiss to the back of Jimothan's hand.

Nat sticks her tongue out at Jimothan, making gagging noises. Her father can't see her, since he's facing the doorway, but Jimothan can, and his brows furrow.

"Come, love. I hope you're a fan of venison, hmm?"

"This is Nat" Trencil says, as if they've never seen each other, as if everyone at the Habitat hasn't seen everyone else, "And Nat, this is Jimothan"

She waves lazily. " 'Sup"

"Uh. Sup" Jimothan turns to Trencil, and whispers quietly from behind his hand, "What does Sup mean?"

Trencil shrugs, looking rather lost himself, but ultimately unconcerned, "You know children, with they're lovely, colorful colloquialisms" and he sweeps from the foyer into the kitchen, hailing them both to follow him.

  
  


It's supposed to be cozy, the way they're sitting around the table, but it falls short. It's awkward. Nat's pretty sure she's already faked the dude out, which is part of why he spends half the dinner laughing with her father, and the other half stealing glances at her, racking his brain for something to say to her and coming with nothing. All nervous.

She can see the resemblance, the way he raps his fingers on the table, like Parsley rubs at his neck. Like father like son, huh.

He turns to speak to her with a dubious grin, "So, hey, uh, what do the kids talk about nowadays? What about that new fangled, whatcha-macallit, game machine thing? What's it called? A Nantendo Cube?"

"It's a Nintendo GameCube. And that came out like ten years ago. I was still crawling"

"Nat knows all about these such things" Trencil proclaims, and there's something a bit like pride in his voice.

Jimothan nods, cutting at a piece of deer steak with his fork, "Parsley's told me a thing or two about it. Can't say I remember all tha' little details"

Jimothan looks at Nat and smiles, "Maybe you can teach me, Champ? Give me a crash course on how ta be hip and all. How's that?"

Nat does laugh at that, 'cause it sounds dumb. Then she clears her throat and looks away, trying to look nonchalant, shrugging, "Yeah, alright. I guess that's okay"

* * *

Nat has not cried in six months. Today is just a bad day. Those always come, but Nat doesn't remember it hurting so bad.

She refuses to seek out her father. 

She doesn't want to go to him so he can comfort her, though she knows he will gladly pull her into his side and rub circles into her back until she feels like she can breath again, and make that hot chocolate she loves so much, and give her as many hugs as she wants. Nat refuses to be babied anymore. She's 13. That's almost an adult. She doesn't need tummy rubs or forehead kisses anymore, gosh darn it!

When her dad knocks at the door, she yells at him to leave her alone. There's one more, single knock, a quiet plea, and Nat knows he's still hovering in front of the door. She ignores him until he presumably leaves, and places her face in her knees.

She hears talking, outside her door, terse whispers. Then it quiets, and the doorknob jostles. Jimothan steps through the doorway, expression concerned, not a moment later.

She forgot to lock the door. Ugh.

"Your dad sent me to check on you. Said you didn't want to talk to him"

Nat can't believe her father sicced his boyfriend on her. As if that's not the last thing she needs right now. She wants to be alone. Let her be miserable in peace.

"And what makes you think I'd want to talk to you?" Nat mutters.

"I'm not him, I guess?" Jimothan sits down on the floor next to her, "weak reasoning, I know… Are you alright, girly?"

"Never better" Nat whispers, scrubbing at her tears with the side of her fist.

"That's why you're crying? 'Cause you're good?"

Nat nods. She opens her mouth to speak, but nothing but a broken sob comes out, followed by a quiet whimper. She curls in on herself, heaving, fresh tears sprung anew.

Jimothan throws his arm around her shoulders, and puts his chin on her head, and tells her everything is going to be alright. And it is comforting. Jimothan has that dadly way about him, which almost automatically means he gives great hugs. And unlike Trencil, he isn't cold as the breezy midnight air outside.

His hugs are warm, and make her feel a little less like she needs to cry.

A lot like mother.

He's not mother, of course. No one is… but, he'll do, Nat supposed.


	3. Iron Chef! (Goodness, Is That Iron?)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trencil shows Parsley a thing or two about how to cook. Meanwhile, Nat reflects, and decides having two dads does, indeed, kind of suck.
> 
> Or; Bonding ensues.

"He quite nearly called me a wench, Jimothan dear. Surely that is a slight cause for concern"

"I'm sure the boy didn't mean that"

"Really?" Trencil asks.

Jimothan nods, like there’s no question. "Yeah. Parsley likes you. Pretty sure he likes you more than me, in fact"

"Nonsense" Trencil tells him, and he means it. Trencil's lived a long time (lifetimes), he's accrued a lot of wisdom in that time, and he knows a thing or two. He knows what love looks like, and he knows what hate looks like.

He knows Parsley loves his father (it's that same lowkey, subtle affection Nat shows for him, where they never quite say the words, but sometimes you can see it in the tilt of your progeny's head or the glint in their eyes or the way they smile just a little too wide and wobbly, at some cheesy joke that didn't quite hit the mark).

Trencil also knows Parsley's feelings about him ranged more toward hate, than love.

He's said as much… and while Trencil is generally not one to jump to conclusions, he is not clueless. He can take a hint.

Every hint says the boy can't stand him.

"Nonsense?" Jimothan raises a single, thick brow.

"Nonsense" Trencil repeats with a nod.

* * *

The law firm's lobby is colder than Trencil had expected. It was the middle of the summer, and it felt like hell had froze over in here. 

The lobby is also considerably larger than Trencil had expected, cavernous, with smooth linoleum wood floors that echo with each heeled step taken, and huge, arching windows set in the domed roof towering above, of which was held up by rather ancient looking marble pillars. They're of excellent craftsmanship.

Trencil clutches his parasol tighter in his hands, stepping further into the lobby, trail of potting soil left in the wake of his mud caked boots. He stops in the middle of the lobby.

He sees people rushing all over the place, running and jogging to get where they're going, hagrid and frazzled and exhausted, but he doesn't see Parsley.

“Parsley?”

“Just gimme a second please! The papers are pilin’ up-” Parsley drops the stack of papers clutched in his arms on the front desk with a heavy slam, and a scowl. A few loose pages fall to the floor in a flurry of movement. Trencil winces.

“What are you doin’ here?”

“I thought maybe we should discuss your concerns about me?”

“At my place of work?”

“This is as good a place as any, yes? Are you busy?”

Was he busy? Really? He did just say he's at _work,_ so heck yes, of _course_ he's busy.

Parsley heaves a great big sigh. “I have a client, Trencil”

Trencil nods, slowly, in understanding, popping his bubblegum with a snap, “Of course. How impolite of me" He inclines his head, half bent at the waist, "I will wait here until you and you’re client have settled your present business”

“Thanks”

* * *

Trencil coming over to teach him how to cook is Parsley's idea. If they have to bond, they might as well do it in a way that's beneficial, and Parsley could use a lesson in cooking (and Pops certainly wasn't qualified to give it).

"The key to a perfectly cooked meal, is to mind the recipe” Trencil smoothes out the folded up piece of paper on the counter, carefully pressing his thumb across the indent down the center, “Your recipe is your road map, which guides you toward the eventual horizon- a delicious, gourmet meal”

“Great metaphor Trencil" Parsley says, with a roll of his eyes that Trencil decides to ignore, "What's the first step?"

“We must first whisk the eggs” Trencil exclaims, and he glides to the fridge, procuring the mentioned eggs. The pink, lacy apron he’s tied to his front swishes the slightest bit with his movement (Parsley remembers that apron. ‘You look dashing, Duskflower’ had been his dad’s gushy response to seeing Trencil wearing it).

Parsley grabs the casserole dish, and they get to work. Trencil makes the dough, covers the counter with a fine layer of flour to make sure the dough won’t stick when he rolls it, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, making the occasional comment on technique. Parsley minds the filling (poorly).

Within a couple hours, they’re pulling the casserole out of the oven. Of course, Parsley set the timer wrong, so by the time they’re extracting their creation out of the oven, it is 20 minutes too late. Apparently, they also managed to use sugar instead of baking soda, and the evaporated milk managed not to be included at all.

The food is burnt. Unbelievably burnt.

Trencil clicks his tongue. His expression is fond, though.

He stares at the casserole, which is charcoal black. The crust caves in.

It’s a disaster. Trencil wonders how they managed to stray so far from the ordained path. The instructions were clear. Clear enough.

Parsley deflates, and gives a defeated little sigh. They both stare down upon their handiwork.

“It looks like a burnt tire” Trencil observes, lightly, “We did follow the recipe, did we not?”

“What happened?” Parsley’s hunched over the recipe book, flipping through it, searching for what they possibly could have done wrong. He lands on the 12th page, and grins sheepishly, “Oh, uh, I guess 2 ½ cups doesn’t mean 4, does it? I was sure it said 4”

Trencil laughs uproariously.

"You are indeed your father's son. If I questioned it before, I certainly can't question it now"

* * *

Jimothan is at their house almost all the time. Nat's absolutely noticed. He eats there, in their dining hall, and he showers in their bathroom, the one in the guest wing reserved for use like, once a year (and he steals all the good shampoo that smells like lavender and peas, (yeah, think she didn't notice you walking all through the halls, smelling suspiciously like her shampoo and looking guilty?), because Nat noticed), and he even _sleeps_ there.

It's weird, but not in any way she can't get used to. It's not flying spiders weird. Not uncanny and disturbing like that. Just… weird, in the mundane, I'll have to get used to this, sort of way.

Her father's boyfriend is handling the adjustment just fine, of course. Better than fine.

He might as well move in with how much time he spends eating their food and lounging about and being a general annoyance. Mi casa es Su casa and all that crap. Except mi casa is not always su casa, and having two dads around all the time _isn't_ as bad as Nat thought it would be. It's worse.

Jimothan pops his head up off the couch, from where he lay across it, newspaper spread out in his hands, eyes squinted in not so silent question.

"Where ya going, pipsqueak?" He asks, tone laced with suspicion.

Nat groans quietly aloud, and removes her hand from the doorknob, "Going out with some friends"

Jimothan glances down at his watch, that old half-broken vintage watch Trencil gave him as a gift. She's not sure why Jimothan accepted it. It was antique, rusty junk her father kept from like a century ago, but the man touted it around like it was some treasure, anyhow.

He's suddenly very alert. He blinks owlishly at her. "It's midnight, girly"

And it's just her luck that the dang watch decides to work right now, of all times. Of course.

"I'd be back before 1pm" she says, the taddest bit desperate, "I won't tell Daddy you let me go"

"No can do. Can't let you be going out just wandering the streets in the pitch black. What kind of father would I be then?"

He doesn't notice the slip. Nat doesn't mention it. She can see the tiniest sliver of hope still gleaming on the horizon, and she plans on using it. 

"Not even for kissies?" She asks, cause it's the best ammunition she knows of. It always gets her father.

Jimothan softens a bit at that. He smiles softly, and the hard glint in his eye diminishes too.

"Nope. Not even for kissies" He laughs, "I'll still take that kiss, though"

Nat grumbles, and shuffles away from the door (her ticket to freedom) toward Jimothan. When she reaches him she gives him a quick peck on the cheek and then pulls away. Jimothan gives perhaps the most idiotic smile Nat has ever seen, and then stands to his feet. He grabs her hand and starts to lead her to the stairs. Nat is a little annoyed, because the whole gesture seems so freaking juvenile (as if she needs to be led like a baby), but she doesn't really have enough energy to want to argue. Adults will be adults, she supposed.

She knows she's already lost anyway. Might as well graciously accept defeat (just this one time).

"Let's get you to bed" Jimothan says, and he sounds just like her dad. Ugh.

Having two dads around definitely sucked.


	4. Can't Say No To Cake!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trencil and Jimothan are just friends. No, Jimothan is not yearning. He's not. 
> 
> And no, he does not take constructive criticism, thank you very much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you write BloodyMary, it's obligatory that you write at least one piece about Jimothan being extra gay, and extra in denial about being gay. That's this chapter, lol.

At first, it's all about making him smile, seeing him laugh, because he doesn't do that enough. It's a challenge to himself, to see if he can get the quiet man seated poised at his bar to loosen up, open up, even just a little.

Then, he can't help but think that a man pretty as Trencil should smile more.

There's nothing wrong with admitting someone's pretty, of course, even if that someone is a man. Jimothan is simply stating what's obvious for all to see. Not as if it means anything. He ain't gay or nothin'.

Trencil is gorgeous. That's just the facts. His eyes are deep, dark, like the abyss of the ocean, filled with inky depth like the Marianna Trench, glowing, twinkling black- stark against pale pink sclera and flawless, olive skin, and his features are graceful, handsome, almost sketched from marble, and _nah,_ Jimothan ain't gay.

Jerafina rolls her eyes. Lulia, who's recently spending more time in the bar, and less moping outside at the bottom of the stairwell, covers her mouth as she giggles.

"Yeah right, daaaa-dio, like we believe that" Jerafina hiccups, and takes another sip of tequila, gazing at him with a piercing glare from over the edge, "Saw the way you were eyeing Garden Boy"

Jimothan rolls his eyes right back at her, and turns away with a scoff, smudged rag still wiping at the glass in his grip.

Yeah right.

What'd she know anyway?

Jimothan knows better than to listen to a drop dead drunk.

* * *

Jimothan isn't upset when Parsley tells him he's gay. Why would he be? There's nothing wrong with that. He is a little hurt by the nervous expression dancing on his face, the way he flinches away as soon as the news leaves his lips, like he's expecting Jimothan to snap.

"Well, ain't that something" He says, instead.

He still does ask Parsley about the ladies, every so often, asks if he's been putting that good ol' Botch family charm to use, waggling his eyebrows and all. Parsley usually huffs and rolls his eyes to the ceiling.

Jimothan is pretty surprised when Parsley comes over a week later with a young man hanging on his side. He introduces him, Martin, as his boyfriend. He really shouldn't have been surprised, because his son is gay. It just, hadn't really become real to Jimothan before that moment.

"Didn't know you were inta beefcakes" Is what Jimothan says to his son once company has left, because Martin was stacked. He made Jimothan, the manliest of manly men, look real small.

Parsley rolls his eyes at that too. He laughs a little, at least.

Jimothan is utterly shocked to learn that Parsley is married, and had been for weeks, a few years later. Married! To Martin. Jimothan isn't invited to the wedding. In fact, Jimothan is the last to know, having heard it from a distant cousin of a cousin of a cousin, who only went to the reception for the cocktail shrimp, or something along those lines. 

It stings. 

When he asks Parsley why he didn't _tell_ him, his son just shrugs and says, with a snappish growl, "Didn't think you'd care".

He cared a lot. He doesn't say so. Men don't cry, and they surely don't go gushing about their feelings.

(Jimothan still has feelings, of course). Jimothan feels like he's been physically crushed when he hears of Parsley's divorce. Divorce. It doesn't sound right. His boy's only 33 and he's already getting a divorce?

He knows how much that hurts.

The Chinese food hefted in his hand is half a peace offering, and half a weak attempt to raise his spirits. He swallows. Parsley's clearly been crying, eyes red rimmed and wet.

Jimothan's been crying too. Alone, mostly. His voice is weak, when he starts to speak. "I would have been here sooner, but the wonton fryer stopped working-?"

Parsley hugs him, and he starts crying harder. 

They eat lukewarm noodles and greasy egg rolls, and they cry. Together.

* * *

Trencil hardly leaves the courtyard, Jimothan notices. Okay, he's hardly in the courtyard, but he's certainly never seen him anywhere else. He doesn't come to the Carnival, and he hardly comes to the lounge. The diner hasn't been graced by his presence in months.

Come to think of it, Jimothan hasn't seen the guy _eat_ in months. Which is… unusual? Questionable, yeah, because everyone eats.

Jimothan likes to think they're friends. They've started up a rapport, mostly at Jimothan's insistence, sure, but Trencil never told him to go away, so he considered that a win. Friends talked, and they talked, so surely they were friends.

Friends visit each other, so Jimothan pinpoints where Trencil lives, and starts popping his head in, every so often. 

Friends also made sure friends didn't starve themselves, which is why Jimothan shows up on Trencil's porch with a casserole in hand. The slight man stares at him from the entranceway into his house, which was so dark, Jimothan couldn't see behind him.

"You need something, sir?" Trencil says, and his tone is coolly polite, coated in the faintest edge of razor thin steel.

If looks could cut… wow. Jimothan would surely be cut.

"I don't need anythin'. Just thought you might appreciate a home cooked meal. I haven't seen you around the diner, or buying groceries and uh, thought you might be hungry"

He laughs. He actually laughs. It's so abrupt it startles Jimothan. "Oh, sorry. Of course. How thoughtful of you"

He takes the casserole dish, which Jimothan marks as a success.

It's an even greater success when Trencil stops by the next evening, with the empty casserole dish in hand, and the softest of smirks on his face.

"It was delicious" His smile grows a little, "You truly are a magnificent cook"

Most people talked about how flattering bright, brilliant sunlight was, but Jimothan swears no one's looked more dashing than Trencil did, backed by that cloud cover. His eyes are bright, mischievous.

And Jimothan is now certain he's got a new friend.

* * *

Trencil is just a friend.

So, they've become close. Whatever. So, yeah, Jimothan has kind of become a permanent fixture at Trencil's house. So what? That's only because it made no sense for Trencil to come to Jimothan's place, considering he's got a little girl to care for (you know, when she bothers to come home). It's just easier for Jimothan to come to him.

And yeah, he often comes with flowers. But that's no big deal.

Friends gave each other flowers, right? That's a normal friend thing? Of course. That isn't out of the ordinary at all.

And sure, maybe Jimothan feels a little nervous when he stops at the front door and offers up a wild rose to Trencil, and he watches as the man's expression waivers. He shifts from foot to foot as he waits for approval, but that's only because he knows if he gets that telltale frown Trencil will turn him away, and he'll have to walk all the way back home. Alone. Which is garbage.

His heart soars when Trencil takes it finally, with a satisfied hum and a faint thanks. Trencil's eyes crinkle around the edges, which is almost as good as a smile. It's probably the most he'd get, without telling a gut busting joke.

He starts bringing flowers everytime he sees Trencil. It gets him to smile, more often than not, and Jimothan kind of has a betting pool with himself to see how many of those he can coax out of him.

He got three tonight. Record total, if he did say so himself.

He's grinning, feeling rather proud of himself, when unlocks the door to his house, and steps through the threshold. He expects to find himself alone, but the supposed to be empty couch instead harbors… Parsley. 

Oh, Parsley?

"Hey pal" He calls to his son, who's staring at him with an eyebrow raised, red eyes squinted in the semi-dark. "What are you doin' here? It's two in the mornin'"

"Where have you been, dad?" Is all Parsley says. He seems to be taking in the sight of his father, dressed in a suspiciously familiar suit jacket, hair slicked back all nice, with an equally suspicious look. He purses his lips, crosses his arms, "That's your funeral tux, pops. Ain't it?"

Jimothan glances down at the black suit, guiltily, basically confirming his son's suspicions. It wasn't custom cut, but he thought it fit quite nicely. The sleeves came all the way down to his wrists, and the pant legs almost covered his burgundy dress socks.

"So what if it is?"

Parsley stands. Now he's certain something is amiss, and he has a strong hunch what it is. He stops a couple feet from Jimothan, taking a whiff of the surrounding area like a blood hound. His nose wrinkles, "You smell like cheap cologne" His nose wrinkles further, as recognition dawns, and he must bite back a huff, "Who is it, dad?"

Jimothan rears back, confused, "Who is what?"

"You're playing that game? Really?" Parsley sounds angry.

Jimothan's brow furrows. First his son lies in wait for him to get home, in the dark, might he add, and then he jumps on his back as soon as he sees him? Someone's in a weird mood, huh.

"No games, promise" Jimothan says, hands held up in surrender. Then he crosses his heart with his index finger, just to be sure he's crossed all his t's and dotted all his i's.

Anger simmers into mild annoyance. "You- you only dress up like this when you're trying to impress someone. Who'd you go see tonight?"

"No one" That sounds worse aloud than it does in his head. He winces, and quickly amends the statement, "I just went to visit a friend, okay? We had dinner, no big deal. Is there really a need for all of this interrogating?"

Now Parsley is smiling, faintly. "You did raise a lawyer, pops. Not sure what else you were expecting"

"At least give me a minute to change before you hook inta me"

* * *

And hook into him, he does. As soon as Jimothan's foot lands at the bottom of the stairwell, Parsley's at his throat. He's wandered away from the couch, and stands only a little further down the hall from Jimothan. His navy suit is crumpled and wrinkled at the middle, like he fell asleep bent in half, but his eyes are bright and wide awake. he looks like he's been thinking, simmering, on something.

"A friend, huh?" He's leveling one of those customary, accusatory stares. Jimothan is suddenly struck by how much like his mother, Parsley is. And just like with his mother, all Jimothan can do is shrug in utter confusion, because he has _no idea_ what his son is getting at. 

He's clearly drawn some parallels Jimothan hasn't.

Parsley scoffs, "One of your lady _friends,_ you mean?"

"No!" Jimothan snaps, "And it's none of your beeswax anyway, young man. You should really keep your nose out of adult business"

Parsley huffs and puffs and tries not to blow a gasket, "Adult- I'm fucking thirty-seven, dad! I'm not still six ly- like you seem to think!"

He's shaking, ever so slightly.

Jimothan throws his hands up in surrender, remorse clear in the lines of his mouth. "Sorry, you're right. We're both adults here… and as adults we _both_ have the right to privacy, yeah?"

Parsley shoulders are hunched forward, but he seems to have discarded his anger for petulant stubbornness. The sound of faint laughter edges into his tone. 

"Nope. Tell me… or I will start listing people"

At this point, it's about the principle. Jimothan wasn't going to admit to anything, especially after all of this badgering. Still standing in the middle of the hall in his plaid pajamas, he crosses his arms and glares up at the wall.

Parsley's answering grin is wicked, "Borbra? Questionette? Lulia?" He ticks each off on his fingers, "Come on, Pops. Spill already"

"Lulia? Really? She'd never have any interest in me. And only thing Jerafina loves is that bottle of hers. And you got this whole thing wrong, anyway. I wasn't on a date. I was with uh-"

Parsley snaps his fingers in recognition.

"Trencil! You were with Trencil, weren't you?" He shouts, and his tone is accusatory.

"Remember, privacy, son"

"You had dinner with Trencil, and you weren't gonna tell me?"

"I mean…" It's not as if they were on the closest terms. As he recalled, the last time Parsley saw him, he told Jimothan to shove it, which is part of why he was so surprised to see him sitting on his couch tonight. Besides, he didn't have to tell Parsley about who he hung out with, or when, or why- and any way, all they did was eat… and maybe hold hands… and Trencil may have wiped his cheek, and complimented his 'strong, defined jaw bone' and yeah, he spent a lot of time staring at Jimothan, with this almost swooning look, chewing on his lip so hard it was sure to bruise and… darn.

That kiss on the cheek probably meant something, huh? More than just friendship between dudes.

Darn.

"Pops? You good?"

His head is spinning. For the first time, he's considering that maybe, just maybe, that fondness he feels for Trencil is more than just friendship. 

He shakes his head. _Who is he kidding?_ Of course it is. His stomach is doing somersaults just thinking about him, him and his pretty eyes and that _voice…_ and suddenly it's like Laura all over again.

He's in love all over again. Gosh.

He looks up at his son, wide eyed with sudden realization. He starts heading for the door.

"Yeah, Pars, I'm good. Now, I uh, gotta go"

Parsley watches after him, as he rushes past and slams the door shut behind him.

"Pops? Pops! Darn it!"

* * *

Trencil opens his front door. His mouth twitches upward into a smile, when he catches sight of Jimothan. Jimothan smiles in return.

"To what do I owe the pleasure, my good sir?" There's a laugh in his voice, and what Jimothan now recognizes as heartfelt affection, sugary like homemade pie, even in Trencil's level tone. 

Trencil's head inclines when he notices the box in Jimothan's hand: pastel pink and straight from the bakery.

"Apology cake" He explains, "It's red velvet, your favorite"

"An apology? For what, may I ask?"

"For being such an idiot" He gently pulls Trencil in for a hug, certain to mind the cake box in his left hand, "Can you ever forgive me?"

"Certainly, Jimothan dear" His eyebrows draw down and inward, but he laughs, and then he's wrapping his own arms around Jimothan in a tight bear hug. Jimothan imagined he would have mentioned propriety, if anyone else had pulled him into an embrace so tight, but he guessed he made exceptions for himself (and Jimothan). And the way he presses his face into the crook of his neck definitely didn't make him the picture of propriety, either. 

Trencil gives him a squeeze, and hums softly. "That's why I like you so much. You're thick headedness, it's part of your charm"

"Really?" Jimothan asks.

"I never fib, Jimothan. I can assure you, you're quite the charming man"

Jimothan swallows thickly. His mouth cranks open and then closed again, and his heart stutters in his chest.

"I think I might… love you?"

Trencil pulls away, just staring up at him. His eyes are abysmal and gilded with hazel green, and Jimothan finds himself getting lost in them, as cliche as it all sounds.

"And I you, obviously" He pauses, and his eyes twinkle, "You brought _cake._ And you even had the decency not to bake it yourself"

"I can bake" Jimothan protests, but his resolves weakens as soon as Trencil's delicate hands wrap around his arm. They are cool, and a shiver runs up Jimothan's spine at the touch.

"No, you can't" Before Jimothan can open his mouth to try protesting again, Trencil pulls him into his house.

"Please, come in, Jimothan, and let us enjoy this cake together"

Jimothan laughs, and Trencil's eyes crinkle around the edges in a show of satisfaction, and it all feels so right.

How could this ever be wrong?

"I mean, I can't say no to cake"

* * *

Jerafina points in front of her, to where Jimothan and Trencil sit, under the shade of a large oak at the edge of the courtyard. They're holding hands.

When Jerafina turns to Lulia, it's with a wide, rictus grin. She extends her hand out expectantly, "Pay up, babe"

Lulia sighs loudly, rustling in her purse, "Jera, you're insufferable"

"Nuh-uh. You know the rules. We don't talk until I get 20 biguns, right here"


End file.
